


Dancing Queen

by SrebrnaFH



Series: Srebrna's Sherlock Oneshots [25]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 80's Music, 80's style disco, 80's style dress, 80's style hair, Birthday Party, Dancing, Established Johnlock, F/M, Fluff, Getting over Breakup, Getting over bad relationship, Greg used to be in a punk band, John is a Good Friend, John's BDE, M/M, Molly is a bit of a mess, Mrs. Hudson is a saint, POV Alternating, Pink - Freeform, Rebuilding self-confidence, References to 80's, References to Moriarty, Self Confidence Issues, Sherlock is a good friend, Sparkly makeup, and fluff, pink dresses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-07
Updated: 2020-07-07
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25135132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrebrnaFH/pseuds/SrebrnaFH
Summary: Molly needs a bit of a pick-me-up after Jim-from-IT turns out to be a criminal mastermind. Enter the consulting boyfriends...
Relationships: Molly Hooper & John Watson, Molly Hooper & Mrs. Hudson, Molly Hooper/Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper/Jim Moriarty (Past), Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Srebrna's Sherlock Oneshots [25]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1356124
Comments: 16
Kudos: 41
Collections: Stories inspired by Johnlock Discord silliness





	Dancing Queen

**Author's Note:**

> As a part of discussion over another person's fic (tilda! :)) I had this flash of an idea of Molly needing to go dancing.  
> Somehow, over the last 2 days of writing it morphed into... this.  
> (no beta, so if you spot any issues, let me know)

"And," Molly hiccupped. "And Jim said— he said I danced funny! And that— that nobody danced like that anymore!"

"There, there," Mrs Hudson patted her hand. "There is no such thing. Every kind of dancing is good. Well, some pay better than others, but every dancing is just enough. Some people can just move their legs properly, but can't do anything about their hands. Some hold the position prettily but have two left feet. That doesn't matter. Dancing is always nice."

"T-thank you. Thank you so much!"

"It's good that the boys brought you here, dear. Now, drink your tea and let's see what we can do about these frazzled nerves."

"O-oh. Yeah. I—"

"John, go and check on that boyfriend of yours, we wouldn't want the flat to be burnt down right now, would we?"

"I'm sure Sherlock is OK—"

"John. Now."

He rose slowly, knowing when he was not needed. Passing by the table, he awkwardly patted Molly's shoulder.

"Sherlock will get all the evidence for the police and we'll make sure Moriarty gets prosecuted. We can't accuse him of being a generally lousy human being in the court of law, but we can try to add in the psychological abuse to all the bigger crap they have on him."

She nodded and sniffed.

"Thank you, John."

"Not a problem. Call me downstairs when you want to go home, I'll take a cab with you."

"B-But—"

"But nothing. See ya later, Molly."

####

The fallout from finally catching Moriarty had hit them high and low. While on the top levels of society, it was Mycroft dealing with the results (to his immense satisfaction), the actual crimes were swiftly being catalogued by Lestrade and his coworkers (to their chagrin and annoyance), Molly had gone mostly overlooked. Until John happened to drop by the morgue and found her weeping in her little office, wrapped in a faded pink cardigan and sorrow.

Despite what most would assume, he was not, in fact, a complete idiot, and he could work out that a woman bawling her eyes out while muttering 'I hate him!' is not grieving the loss of a man in question, but has some other kind of an issue with him.

Molly gave in after some gentle prodding and divulged that 'Jim' had been slowly and subtly working on her feeling of self-worth. On lowering it, to be precise. Since Molly already was not exactly very sure of herself, the results were swift and brutal, leaving her shaken, a bit lost and very much weepy.

Sherlock did not react to her displays of emotion as warmly as John did, but confronted with the reality that one of their closest coworkers had been deeply affected as a side result of Moriarty's little obsession with him, he offered that they could, maybe, take Molly out of the morgue and offer her their hospitality (or, as case may be, Mrs Hudson's hospitality) for the afternoon.

Their housekeeper had taken to doctor Hooper immediately and as John explained the situation - as much in general terms as he could - Mrs Hudson was sitting Molly down at her kitchen table and plying her with biscuits and tea.

He left them to it.

"Sherlock? Sherlock— What is this?"

"An evolving list of things at which Jim sucked," Sherlock grunted. "This should cheer her up in no time."

"No, Sherlock, I— I don't think so. She seems too shaken for just, you know, reasoning to work."

"She is an immensely logical person... Well, not that much. But she should be amenable to—"

"Maybe at a later point? She's very much emotional right now, I think."

Sherlock scowled.

"He criticised everything she did, and I'm trying to work out how to help her get over it," John leaned back in his chair. "I can only advise... Well, I remember what _I_ did when someone criticised my way of playing rugby at school. When they said I was too short or too scrawny to be effective."

Sherlock was quiet, watching him attentively.

"I went out there, on the grass, and kicked some ass. Winning another game always helped me to conquest that little doubtful voice in my head. And the bigger doubtful voices around me. Much better than any other method would."

"So, you're saying, Molly should go and kick some butt?"

"Metaphorically. She should prove to herself she can do... whatever he said she couldn't."

"Which is quite a lot, according to her."

"The man specialised in denigrating people he wished to keep under his control."

"He tried with you and it didn't work out," Sherlock pointed out, with — satisfaction?

"He might have underestimated me and my resilience to bullshit gaslighting. And I wasn't dating him, so he had much less chance to work on me. Back to the point, what I need your input on is, what kind of music would Molly be interested in dancing to."

"What?"

"Have you ever worked out what she listens to? What exactly she has on that little player she keeps in her desk? Moriarty criticised her dancing style and I think the shortest way to get her back on her feet would be to take her dancing, to something she'd like. Something she knows well."

Sherlock frowned.

"Considering Molly was born in 1981 and has in general rather conservative tastes of a middle-class mid-sized town society, I'd wager— Cyndi Lauper, Madonna and probably Eurythmics. I'd pepper in some ABBA and Spice Girls for balance from both the 70's and 90's."

John hummed softly, clicking on his laptop.

"Kylie Minogue," Sherlock added with distaste. "Yazoo and the whole synthpop genre."

"Don't make this face. You'll have to withstand an evening of this. And dance, at least some."

"Absolutely not."

"For Molly."

The detective shivered with revulsion.

"Can we— Oooh. Look, Sherlock. Perfect occasion."

It was. In fact, it was more than perfect.

An invitation to an "80's Styled Disco" for Lestrade's birthday.

The next evening.

Coincidence? No such thing.

"Find something to wear that is not a suit," he instructed the detective. "And get a bottle of whiskey or a tie — something appropriate. The man is turning forty-five in a week, he needs to celebrate. And we will take Molly as our— Well, as a friend."

"You could take her as your plus one," Sherlock grumbled. "I wouldn't have to—"

"Molly. Is. A. Friend. And she's mostly _your_ friend, you annoying git. You've been abusing her kindness for ages now. So you will put on a pair of jeans and a patterned shirt, or whatever you deem fitting, and we will take Molly dancing. And you will dance at least three with her. So will I, mind you."

Sherlock froze for a moment, but John ignored it, picking up his things and making for the door.

"But— John?"

He paused, looking at his (newly acquired) boyfriend in question.

"I— I don't think I want to dance with others? Only Molly and you."

John drew his detective closer into a hug.

"Sure. Sure. No dancing with strangers. I will have a task for you, though. Watch Molly for the evening, OK? Just watch if she is having a reasonably good time."

Sherlock nodded into his shoulder.

####

"Going _what_?"

"Tomorrow. Greg's birthday - DI Lestrade's. You're coming with us. 80's casual dress expected."

He wasn't a betting man (not anymore), but he'd wager a tenner that the little flash in Molly's eyes was excitement.

"B-but how do you—"

"The unit is throwing Greg a party 'high school disco style' and since he was a teen in the 80's, the final result is 'a lot of Eurythmics and synth' plus some punk, since Greg used to be in a punk band. I checked with his sergeant, she'd be happy to see more women to balance out all the blokes. And there will be a makeup station managed by one of the lady cops—"

Definitely excitement.

"Y-yes, that would be nice—" she trailed off, playing with her cuff. "Um. Who would be coming?"

"Lestrade obviously, most of his division, some additional coworkers, the crime scene techs, two or three crime scene photographers, some significant others... Anyway, we'd drop by your place to pick you up and we can go all together, if it makes you feel better about the entire idea. And you should have been included anyway, since you work with the division, if not directly in it."

Molly nodded choppily, but she was smiling. Just a bit. But smiling.

"Tomorrow at six. Be brave. I'm going to try to talk Sherlock into some makeup."

####

She bit her lip, standing in front of her closet.

No, not the closet where she kept the jumpers and cardigans and good girl blouses and pencil skirts and A-skirts and trousers for the office.

That other closet.

The one to the side of her bedroom.

Yes, that one. The one she almost never looked at or opened.

Not only because it was at an inconvenient angle to the bed, but also because it smelled of old perfume she used to wear at high school.

It smelled of unfulfilled hopes.

Like that bag of fluffy wool she had bought but never learnt to knit with.

Like the embroidery frame that she couldn't get to tighten the canvas properly.

Like the pair of pink-and-orange converse she bought on a whim with her first yearly bonus and then never had the courage to wear.

They were all there. The craft stuff filled half of a meagre shelf, but it still watched her with reproach. The costume jewelry that didn't really fit into her daily office garb. The headbands she had carefully decorated with sewn-on fabric flowers in shades of fuchsia.

And then there were dresses. One in particular.

Pearl pink satin with a darker sash and black fluffy boa. Not a real feathered one, no way. That sounded much too cruel. It was a long line of fluffy yarn, knitted into a form of a scarf by a lady at the 'glam' stall at the handmade craft fair. There had been other things she bought that day - granny square pillow cases, embroidered drawstring bags, and a small 20's (ish) headband.

But that silky black boa called to her.

And it had been languishing in her closet for nearly five years.

She pulled it out.

And put it back in.

Out.

Stand in front of the mirror.

No, no way.

Try with the dress.

Come on, try it.

Jim would say I look silly.

Jim isn't here. Jim's in prison.

Jim—

_Jim is a bad person and I should ignore everything he said!_

She pulled the dress out and stripped to her undies in seconds.

Then she took a breath, sucked her stomach in and pulled the garment on.

It went through with ease that was quite satisfying. She had kept her high school figure quite well.

There was the sash that she was supposed to wrap around and tie on the back, and the multiple pseudo-belts of chain and plastic pearls, and then the boa, and— Something with her hair. She had to do something with her hair!

She reached out and pushed the toggle on her player where it was docked to the speakers stand.

_Turn around! Look at what you see_

_In her face, The mirror of your dreams_

She straightened and pushed her hair up and back, surveying the line of her neck. She needed an updo.

Then she carefully changed into her yoga pants and a stretched-out t-shirt with a pink kitten (her second most favourite, it was nice and soft) and sat at her laptop to google for '80's hair advice', as Limahl faded away slowly, morphing into "The Loco-motion".

_Curls. Hm. I can do curls. Or fluff them up somehow... Don't want to damage them too much, but hey... Some backcombing has never killed a girl._

####

Molly was a little star.

They didn't even really have to dance with her, apart from a little round of Macarena that had been played at the very beginning to relax everyone and get them into the right state of mind.

They could both relax and just watch her now, hiding their lack of period-accurate dress from the more precise of the guests.

(Sherlock, his curls parted on the side and gelled slightly back, and in his loose metallic blue shirt was more 90's than 80's, but he declined getting into anything more authentic. John went for a bit of an "Elvis Presley" solution, since his hair was too short for any actual styling, so he used a small heap of pomade to comb it back, put on his pale blue jeans, a denim shirt paired with a white undershirt and a belt with a really impressively large buckle. With sparkles.)

((Sherlock made big eyes and mumbled something about something-something-energy when he saw the outfit))

It wasn't exactly 80's, but it was close enough.

And anyway.

Nobody was watching him. Or Sherlock.

Everyone was watching _Molly_.

Molly, in her hot pink Converse, her pale pink satin dress on multiple petticoats, her teased fluffy hair, her flowery headband and her sparkly makeup (applied by a very amused lady with a large makeup case who helped everyone to get into the glitter-and-sparkle spirit of the evening).

((that same lady also had a lovely delicate metallic kind of blue eyeshade that was now adorning Sherlock's face, making his eyes even more striking than normally))

Oh, and then there was Greg. Who, getting fully into the spirit of the occasion, had arrived fully decked out in bad-boy-punk-mixed-with-glam-rock outfit, complete with pink streaks in his greying hair and, to the surprise of nobody at all, an actual electric guitar.

Which he had presented by playing several quick riffs on it in front of everyone, as an expression of gratitude for the party.

(even Sherlock admitted that it had been quite acceptable skill-wise, if not exactly enjoyable due to the sheer volume of the sound)

They were now getting close to midnight and Greg's initially spiked hair had softened a bit and was now floppy (if still pink) but he turned out to be a very skilled and resilient dancer, keeping up with all his coworkers, despite being their senior, and equally able to lead a lady in a slightly 60-ish twist as in a lambada.

Which he was doing.

Right now.

With Molly.

"I'm not sure if Gavin is an adequate— Rebound?"

"Shush. And it's Greg. And he's not a rebound, they are just— dancing."

"I'm pretty sure in some cultures this counts as copulation."

"Sherlock!"

"In the Victorian times they'd be forced to marry now."

"In the Victorian times Greg would not be wearing pink hairdye, so it's good to the both of them we live in the twenty-first century."

"And for us."

"Indeed."

One of the techs sidled closer to them.

"Your friend, she a dancer, or what?"

"Hmm."

"No, a pathologist."

The tech blinked.

"Wait. This is doctor Hooper? The mousy little— Umpf?"

John's hand neatly pulled the man's overly loose shirt collar together, strangling him in a fairy threatening fashion.

"Shut up," Sherlock advised. Calmly.

"...ok..."

They watched Molly who laughed at some remark made by Lestrade, as the lights dimmed and single spotlights were slowly coming on along the ceiling and new song came on. _Now I've had the time of my life, No, I never felt like this before..._

John bobbed his head along to the melody, as Greg obviously found his second wind and picked up the pace. And so did Molly.

He was no Swayze and she was no Jennifer Grey.

But it was good.

Any dancing was good.

####

There was something liberating in dancing with a man who obviously knew what he was doing - and was entirely unbothered by the spectacle the two of them were making of themselves in front of his coworkers.

Molly blessed the fact that she was wearing dancing slippers, not high heels, because she could still feel her toes despite having spent all these hours on the dance floor. And the dress was perfect, with just the right amount of petticoats to make sure she was _not_ showing her undies, unlike the dancers in that old Lambada music video, or Baby. Yeah, a good swish of material and two tulle underskirts to give it the right body. And a good bra, making her fill the top better than some of her old celebrity role models, if she could be so bold to claim.

She glanced at where Sherlock was sitting, all wrapped possessively around John, face buried in the doctor's neck and both arms in metallic blue contrasting with John's matte blue denim shirt.

Yeah. She wanted some of that. Or rather, some of this kind of feeling.

Sherlock had something stable to lean on, why not her? Why couldn't _she_ get someone who wouldn't mess with her, manipulate her... She really wanted someone she could count on to catch her.

"I'm not gonna do the lift at the end, doctor Hooper," DI Lestrade warned her as they went for another promenade. "Ten years ago, maybe, but these days I'm more of a hip lift and twirl guy, if you'd be up to it."

"Yeah," she agreed, maybe a bit breathlessly. "We wouldn't want you to end up straining yourself on your birthday."

"Bad example."

"Very bad example."

"So, until the end of this, then another promenade and then—"

The hip lift and turn didn't work out _that_ well, since she managed to kick one of the bystanders on the shoulder and so spill his beer — and it turned out to be that Anderson man from the crime scene team. Oups!

(but then she saw Sherlock laughing like a loon in the corner and John giggling with him, so that had to be a good thing)

She ended up being walked — all properly and with a bow over her hand at the end — to her table, back to John and Sherlock and their preoccupation with each other.

"How was it?" John finally asked, handing her a glass of water.

"Well, he is—" she took a long gulp, "unexpectedly skilled. I don't remember _ever_ having that much fun! Jim was—"

John's hand closed around her wrist and she looked up into his sharp, blue-and-gold eyes.

"Jim is a perfect example of a complete waste of oxygen," he enunciated slowly. "And I don't mean it because he's a criminal. Even a criminal may have some redeeming values. Many of them do, in fact. Moriarty— Jim is an example of a person who has nothing good in him. He twisted his intellect into a machine of abuse - of the society, of you, of Sherlock. Each for his particular purpose. So, you know. Comparing people to him is putting the bar pretty low. And I'm saying this as a man who had been a pretty shitty boyfriend to different people."

"What John means is that you should not be considering your choice of life mate in the context of Moriarty, but rather evaluate each option individually, considering carefully what kind of input each of them could bring into the relationship. And don't ignore the value of good DNA. You don't want your future offspring to look like little crime scene hobgoblins, for example, so you should avoid making more contact with Anderson. He could take it as an encouragement. In fact, if you were looking for an appropriate set of genes, Gertram might be a specimen to take a closer look at—"

"Sherlock!"

Molly managed not to inhale too much of her water, but it still felt like half of a swimming pool came up her nasal passages.

"What? That's perfectly sound advice! Although at this stage of the party, and at that hour—"

"Shut up, please," she moaned.

Molly wanted to die of embarrassment, but she was also one of the few people who could say with authority that this was not possible.

She was _not_ going to consider DI Lestrade in the context of— of what Sherlock had said.

She was _not_. Empathetically.

She was not going to think of the way he took the lead and held her hand and—

He did have nice hands, and the way he had dressed for the party showed that he had a healthy amount of humour (and, accidentally, some very reliably solid muscle visible from under the threadbare t-shirt) and—

She. Was. Not—

"Well, doctor Hooper, ready for another round?"

She looked up.

The club was slowly pulsating to the low, easily recognisable strumming of John Deacon's bass.

"Can you perform under pressure?"

Oh, he was waggling his eyebrows now. What did he... Ah!

"No," she answered loftily. "But I can try Bohemian Rhapsody."

He had a nice, low, manly laugh.

**Author's Note:**

> Edit ;)  
> For reference, the music I'm mentioning/quoting/alluding to:  
> Molly is playing "Never Ending Story" when she tries on her dress: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gf1WT8VEZxk  
> And then she listens to "The Loco-Motion": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=POWsFzSFLCE  
> Lambada (and the requisite close-contact moves, that required a girl to really trust a guy, or it could turn ugly): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iyLdoQGBchQ  
> "Time of my life" is from Dirty Dancing, and that's what the "lift" remark is about: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zmV6YNqN43o (obviously Greg isn't as spry as Swayze here, so he'd rather go for less risky lower lift like in 2:12 instead of the full lift like in 3:22)  
> And the last, with "John Deacon's strumming" is "Under Pressure": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YoDh_gHDvkk (my fav version, mixed with Bowie)


End file.
